In My Dreams We Dance An Old Waltz Together
by jj-chan
Summary: In which Fakir dreams of Mytho and it is generally strange.


**IN MY DREAMS WE DANCE AN OLD WALTZ TOGETHER **

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Conceived, typed and edited while listening to Rico J Puno's rendition of "Ang Huling El Bimbo" (the last el bimbo – just ask if you wanna know more) on loop. It's bad, so please forgive me. More edits forthcoming.

Diclaimer: Not mine. I haven't even seen past the second episode.

* * *

Lahat ng pangarap ko'y bigla lang natunaw

Sa panaginip na lang pala kita maisasayaw…

* * *

Of course you're dancing. In your dreams you're always dancing.

Mytho puts his arm around your waist – _hesitant, awkward, graceless motion, so unlike him, his ballet, you wonder if you two are really _dancing – and asks "like this?"

"No," you snap – grab his hand, place it securely on your back; clasp the other in yours, extend – feel how silk-soft his gloves are, he's dressed like the prince he is, boots and cape lined with emeralds, a small gold crown resting on his hair; what a contrast to your own trousers and plain cotton shirt! Don't notice how small his fingers are on your palm.

"I am sorry."

"Don't you remember what we did last time?"

"I do. Sorry, Fakir."

"Stop saying sorry."

Nod.

"Alright. Mind your steps _but do not look down_."

Nod.

"Shall we start?"

"Yes, but… " He tilts his head back – further than the last time; his head is level on your chest now, not shoulders, not chin. "I think, I grew smaller again."

Of course he didn't, it's you – _You're growing up, like you've always been. Remember when you were but a child, and from your point of view he was tall as a fortress_? _– _your muscles are thicker, your shoulders broader, and your voice is yet deeper – on the outside you are transforming from a tall, slender boy into a tall, strong man.

It's Mytho who hasn't changed, still small and delicate-looking, and your hand is large enough now to encircle his neck. Forever young, like the characters immortalized in storybooks, your storybooks; brave princes! Princes and unbreakable swords, beautiful princesses, enchanted damsels and loyal, unwavering knights.

"Never mind," you mutter. "Shall we start?"

"Yes," he says again, and you dance.

_Step_-step-step, shoes against the floor, making hollow clack-clack sounds in the empty old cathedral, with moonlight spilling through the broken glass windows, black-as-ink sky dotted with stars. The moon is huge, and full, and silver.

Step-step-step, footfalls echoing in that huge cathedral hall without altars or pews. It is hard, he is too small, the dance is too unfamiliar, you fumble with footing, clockwise-counter-clockwise, stumble a bit, miss the imaginary, unsung notes.

Outside, the night is still. Too still. You are dancing in a tapestry, an illustration for a fairy tale, no movement except for the ones you make, no breeze except the ones you make – inhale-exhale, grunt at another misstep – and Mytho's gentle breathing. Everything is one-dimensional, a perfect background brushstroke, until you touch it and it becomes real, becomes the marble underneath your soles, a wall blocking your quarter-turn, silverlight landing on Mytho and glinting off the jewels on his collar.

Step-step-step, your movements smoother, in synch – this is good, you're both learning, adapting to the way the other moves – pressed close, until your bodies remember.

Step-step-_step_-swoosh, sweep along the aisle, past the huge, ornate wooden door with its beautiful embossed curlicues, out in the now-untended garden overgrown with blooming weedflowers and dying roses.

Step step step, flowing together, until this is familiar again.

Step-_step-step_-stop, by the half-crumbled fountain, gray concrete stained into glowing mother-of-pearl by moonbeams, thin streams of water still trickling down the cracks.

"We'll dance with music, next time," you say, because it's time to go, but this space is devoid of welcomes and farewells. "This is good enough."

Mytho looks at you, eyes large and luminous gold. You remember Ahiru saying, a long long time ago, that they looked lonely.

"Yes," he answers, and you think_, no, not lonely, they're blank mirrors and all you can see in them are reflections of your own feelings, your own broken dreams_. "It's good enough, isn't it?"

You remember saying, _stay the way you are, it's best that way, _and now you've got exactly that, and it tastes like ashes on your tongue, quicksand under your toes, and how can you dance when your feet are trapped and sinking?

You wake.

When you wake, your bed is hard and lumpy and your mouth feels like moss. You've kicked off all the blankets. The light is still on, combining with sunlight streaming in through the open windows to sting your eyes and make them water. Your worktable is a mess, ink is spilled on papers and there are splotches on the desk.

Your body is aching, joints feel stiff, like you've danced on a thousand valleys, across a thousand meadows, or a thousand pas de deux in your dreams.

**-**

**That's All, Folks**


End file.
